He made this final announcement in the tone in which he might have made it if it had been that of an appointment to the greatest position the country could have given him.

“Well,” said Leaver, after a moment, his weary eyes still studying Burns’s face, “that is a fine thing for you two to do.  I can see that such an interest might well hold a man away from an ordinary city practice.  There is no children’s hospital near here, then?”

“None at all.  Children’s wards, of course, but nothing like what ought to be.  Of course we can’t take care of the surplus.  It will be only special cases, here and there, that we shall try to handle.  But I’m meeting with those every day—­cases where the country air and the country fare are almost as much a part of the cure as the surgical interference.  My word! but it will be a satisfaction to bundle the poor little chaps off to our farm!”

His eyes were very bright.  He lay smiling to himself for a minute, then he sat up.

“In a month,” said he, “we shall be ready for business.  I have four little patients waiting now for the place.  On three of them I’m going to operate at once.  On the fourth—­you are.”

Again the two pairs of eyes met—­hazel eyes confident and determined, brown eyes startled, stabbed with sudden pain.  Burns held up his hand.

“Don’t say a word,” he commanded.  “I’m merely making an assertion.  I’m willing to back it up by argument, if you like, though I’d rather not.  In fact, I’d much rather not.  I prefer simply to make the assertion, and let it sink in.”

But Leaver would speak.  “You forget,” he said, bitterly, “that I’ve put all that behind me.  I told you I should never operate again.  I meant it.”

“Yes, you meant it,” said Burns comfortably.  “A man means it when he swears he’ll never do again something that has become second nature to him to do.  He’ll do it—­he’s made that way.  You will do this thing, and do it with all your old grip and skill.  But I’m not going to discuss it with you.  Some day, if you are good, I’ll describe the case to you.  It’s one you can handle better than I, and it’s going to be up to you.”

He got to his feet, ignoring the slow shaking of Leaver’s downbent head.  “By the way,” he said, with a glance at the cottage, now a mere blur in the oncoming twilight, “have you heard of the young photographer who is to sweep down upon us and make wonderful, dream-like images of us all, for good hard cash and fame?  A friend of my wife’s:  a girl who looks twenty-five, but is a bit more, I am told.  A remarkably good-looking, not to say fascinating, person with a grandmother still more fascinating—­at least to me.  They are to come as soon as this rookery can be made habitable.”

“Miss Mathewson spoke of it.  It will be an interesting event to the village, I should suppose.  But I shall not be among the victims of the lady’s art.  I may as well tell you, Red—­I must get away next week.”